in your sleep

and I observe you

dreaming

my sea

your sea,

between the sun clefts

filtered

through my eyelashes,

through your eyelashes,

on my corner

on you

everlasting poetry.

canalized

the sky

wet wrath.

I caught

and drank

savouring

the storm taste.

All here

the light gush

firing

tramp sleeps.

The soul of houses

is subjected

to the filiform

half-light

bounced

by useless

motes.

I am silent

today leave me in peace;

I don't want you to shake me,

let me swing

between my thoughts lianas,

empty-like,

for once

empty-like,

for not dying by siege.

the breathe

of the deserted houses

to the shrilling

of voices

in the time.

Elderly people

cry

at the stroke of the

cuckoo-clock.

I pretend

not to be back

on my steps

and don't switch off

the alarm clock

on my sleep

to catapult myself

in the dream

and not in the reality.

But I find myself

like a ghost.

this evening

over roofs and chimneys

so big

to fill

my eyes

and hold

an old man's

stick toll

trudjing

where my photo film

ends.

(Piombino, August 1997)

without my dreams

and this display

without graffitoes

doesn't reflect

my sadness.

I must invent again

a dream-play

and dip in it

to believe

to be able to fill with words

the Cahos that doesn't need them,

the heart playing,

happy,

only with time.

But I'm only able to make a fairy tale

and look at it

growing teeny

raised on the yards

flyed over by the seagulls

transparent of adventures,

entangled in my thoughts

fallen in love with life.

to invent

complicated lines.

The Ego graft

on the pen

has an handicap

stronger than will.

Maybe I pretend

to resemble myself;

maybe simplicity

is an old family friend.

also my icy depth

of my unconscious plans?

Bronzing with hues

the slow walk

of my deep meditations?

We are alone,

you and me, sun,

with nothing between us

than my castles in the air.

down and up

a wake of floors.

Windows

perched

at an angle

on a dark river,

tormented by envy

for not being

opened in the sky.

A cappuccino

strip foam

ruffles a cloud

unable to lick it.

to darken your eyes

injuring your pride

crumpling up your passions;

I'll come

to steal your heart

and shut it

in my mind cruel of love;

I'll come in the sun

to tighten a smile

opening a neverending view

on your soul;

I'll come in the time

to be a toy

I would be

a doll.

The one I never saw

in the faces of mine.

threaded

in the mad cobweb

of the unexpressed things.

Alone,

she looks to the bars

commiserating the absents.

Silence lowers from the terraces,

granny listens no more screams

and is left alone,

in the middle of the empty green,

and of memories;

glory escapes from eyes,

enthusiasm is hauled down with the flags,

crumpled papers burn in the fireplace,

make champions and victories useless.

You continue to be

and still try to live

and love the fresh air

that frees fantasies

and you breath the time

that, unpretentions, makes you a champion.

the star

lighting the faces

smiling

for your absurd death.

I haven't standards

to probe the misteries

of the cruel universe

that determined to get rid of you

for ancestral revenge.

I was there, mute,

in front of the photo of your sunset

of the cold heavenly body

like me in this despicable day.

Of you it remains just a breath

and your light in the dark of the sky,

up there

with me, with us and the stars,

above the cruelty

of the lack of knowledge.

(On Jesse Jacobs' execution, USA 1995)

of famous beaches

flied over

by analytical seagulls:

I listen

the wind hiss

around my hair

letting

my soul

go out of me

to reach

its horizon

crowded

of solitaries.

the sky

throws open a water coloured sun

on the horizon

and an ode of joy

pour from heart.

The day again starts

hoping to live

on the blaze of coloured buds

and I

look at my eyeshadow palette

to fix Nature

at the sunset

my name

to shudder

at the rumble

of my voice.

I laugh

at my life game

walking

on my ashes.